


Blood of Bone

by Bingothefarmersdog



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 01 (Critical Role), F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Inspired by Jane Eyre/Pride and Prejudice, Just sayin', Kissing, Necromancy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon, Undeath, Vaginal Fingering, also Vecna is one creepy sonofabitch, its kind of what I do, you can expect plenty of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bingothefarmersdog/pseuds/Bingothefarmersdog
Summary: They were Fated to be together.Delilah liked to think of it like that. Fate. They were meant for each other, like two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same person. They were meant to be together, blood to blood, and bone to bone. And if they had to break the world to get there, it was a small price to pay. They were One.And alive or dead, they always would be.





	1. The Lady Liar

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Inspiration: Main Theme (piano version) from Layers of Fear. By Arkadiusz Reikowski  
> https://youtu.be/JzlNTJr_kHw
> 
> Please give it a listen!

“Now, I don’t think I really need to tell you to be on you best behavior, that should be quite obvious enough. You don’t need a tutor to work that out for yourself.”

Delilah snorted, easily sensing the underlying animosity in her teacher’s tone. No indeed, she didn’t need a tutor for that at all, hadn’t needed one since she was only a very young thing. But even though she could hear it, she hardly listened. He was almost past his time anyway, and she was busy giving herself a critical examination in the mirror, studying the effect.

The corset her maid had laced her into appeared to be some barbarous torture device masquerading as clothing. But she had to admit, when she smoothed her hands over the stiff curved planes of her waist, that despite the pain, her fashionable cage had rewarded her with a sleek attractive figure worth the discomfort. They wanted her to look innocent of course, young and unacquainted with the world, desirable but pure, an innocent harmless dove worth winning and protecting. It was in fact, almost a little heavy handed, and she couldn’t help but feel that dressing her in white was just a bit too overt.

Because really, Delilah wasn’t pure. She wasn’t innocent, wasn’t inexperienced in the ways of the world, and she certainly wasn’t harmless. They’d made sure of that. In fact, she was in her own estimation, quite deadly. And she was determined to elevate herself through this, no matter what other task she had been assigned with. Yes she would do Their bidding, but it wouldn’t just be for Them, she had her own interests to look out for, her own ladder to climb.

She could see in the mirror that Anders was bursting with things he wanted to say to her, running his fingers over his trimmed black goatee just sprinkled with gray, a sure sign of impatience. But he couldn’t say any of the things he wanted to say to her, with the maid still in the room, and it was amusing to see how it galled him. Delilah had ceased either to fear or respect him long ago.

He had been her tutor for as long as she could remember, and by technicality held a higher place in the body than she did, but she had been singled out where he never was, and she had long known that she would inevitably rise above him. Ander’s ambition was too vehement, too concerned with human titles, and not concerned enough with the one opinion that really mattered. And now he was starting to drift past his prime, slipping from the years of youth and growth, into old age and stagnation. It was unsurprising he had never risen any higher than he was now.

These thoughts were disturbed by the maid, who approached her from behind, and settled a rich diamond necklace around her throat. One of many adoring tokens of sentiment from her betrothed. It was a truly lavish thing, worth more than its weight in gold, and Delilah had profusely declared both her thanks and her admiration. Her praise was snapped up of course, and she imagined what a stir it would make, to appear before the rabble hoard sporting her fiancé’s jeweled trappings.

 _The sweetest couple,_ they would say. _The pair of turtle doves,_ they would whisper. _Look at the two of them, they’re completely enamored with each other, isn’t it simply divine?_ All that and more would be said, covert looks and whispers traded between conspirators, while both ladies fans and gossiping tongues flapped together. The whole of them wagging their heads in one brightly colored mass.

And all the while Delilah would smile, bat her eyelashes, and gleefully have murdered the whole yammering pack of them over and over again.

“That will be all,” Delilah said distantly to the maid, still surveying her overall appearance, and now the diamonds as well, in the mirror. “Leave us.”

Like the obedient waif she was, the maid curtsied to her in the mirror, and quickly exited the room. Which left the two of them alone, Delilah standing statuesque and perfect in the mirror, while Anders lounged lazily in the low armchair of her dressing table, and both watched each other belligerently through the mirror’s reflected surface. Delilah had already decided she was contented with her appearance, but Anders would expect her to turn away from the mirror and listen to his lecture with her attention towards him and eyes directed downward, like she was still an erring schoolgirl. But she had decided she would not give him the satisfaction, and didn’t turn.

“I would like to speak to you, while we have a moment’s privacy.” Anders hinted, with a sharp edge under the civility.

“I assure you I’m listening.”

“You know what you are here to do,” Anders began. “Otherwise all my years of teaching you have been utterly in vain, you have ears of wood, eyes of stone, a mind that is empty, and an understanding that is asleep.”

“I’m being married off,” Delilah said dispassionately, lifting her chin in the mirror.

“Why?”

“For the local influence, my fiancé’s wealth, and the trusted position it gives me.” She listed off easily, but she could see from the way Ander’s face grew sharper, and his lip curled, that she had miscalculated, failed to mention some vital thing.

“That’s only the half of it my dear.”

“Do please, oh wise and sagacious Master, enlighten me in my error.”

“I’m sure you can work it out for yourself. Recall what I’ve taught you, and tell me where you went wrong. What have you forgotten?”

Delilah growled, scowling sourly in the mirror, but she had no choice but to do as he said, and consider her words. “My fiancé himself,” she said at last.

“Your fiancé indeed, very cleverly worked out, (and how sweetly you call him _my fiancé_ too)…” Anders praised, with smug laughter in ever syllable he spoke. “Don’t get so greedy for your own wealth and reputation, that you forget the man himself, my dear.”

“I know my own purpose!” Delilah snarled. She could hear the booming sound of her betrothed, shouting out over the distant sounds of his guests. Then a rhythmic clapping, that started softly (only a few participants), but grew louder as others joined. They were calling for her to end her seclusion and come join them, and she knew that the private moment was swiftly running out. If she didn’t answer now of her own accord, she would be fetched out by her doting fiancé in much less dignified fashion. “You need not fear my forgetting. I’m well aware of what you really want.”

“He’s what you were raised for,” Anders said, still as smug as ever. “He’s in our way, and we need him.”

“I know what I’m doing Anders.”

“You haven’t quite caught him yet my child.”

That made Delilah laugh, because truly, it was Anders who’d made the miscalculation this time. The misstep that reassured her, just at the moment when she was shrinking before him again. Her tutor indeed, wise he might be, but he was too wise to realized that he didn’t know everything.

It was all over the room, yet he could not see it. The dressing table laden with perfumes, the boudoir stuffed with richly tailored gowns, the satin sheets of the bed, the weight of diamonds around her neck, all told the story for anyone who had truly grasped the art of logic. Always he berated her for not accepting his lessons, but truly he was the one that needed to learn.

There was no need to capture her prize. Whether or not she ever caught her admirer and wed him was beside the point, for anyone could see that Delilah had caught his heart already. And having his heart, there was no more need to fear for what would follow. If she kept that in her possession, she would always be one step ahead, and it was Anders who hadn’t understood. What she had been raised for indeed, this was easy, and it was Anders who would fail in the end.

And yes, she would charm. She would laugh and smile and throw yet thicker coils around her prize. Because it was what They wanted, it took little effort from her, and there was no harm in being sure. She would play the part, and put on the show, pretending to be as besotted as her man was. Until it was secure, she had him, and all would see how far she’d risen, how much she had now.

Until all would see that she had won.

None of this she deigned to bestow upon Anders, if he was mistaken, let him think himself secure. Then no one would have the position of understanding, of power, but herself. He would have only his erroneous Fact, and to have pointed out his mistake, though satisfying in the moment, would only do him a greater service that it did her.

Finally turning away from the mirror, and directing her attention to the now thunderous pounding of the guests, Delilah crossed the room. Pausing in the door, she turned to speak to Anders one last time. “You are invited to watch the spectacle of course, but if you’re thinking of managing me, you needn’t trouble yourself. I know my own work, and you’d better not put your clumsy hand in the affair. I’ll catch my puppet, never fear.”

“We die to rise again.” Was all Anders said in return, his voice a monotonous drone.

Turning away, Delilah forgot him and left the room.


	2. A Foil To Converse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Inspiration: Pink from Sherlock Series 1, by David Arnold and Michael Price  
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=VNQqKj0BvIU
> 
> Please give it a listen!

“Ah! Here is my gay bird come at last!” Her fiancé boomed when she finally appeared on the terrace overlooking the garden.

Cheers and applause greeted her, the guests excited by her final appearance, and Delilah exerted her power over her blood. Using the gift to call a rush of blood up into her face for a blush, which was a truly pitiful use of a gift meant for much greater uses, but it gave a nice effect to her appearance before them all. The shrinking damsel, confounded by their praise of her coming, totally unprepared for the flattery.

It could not truly be said that she ran down the stairs toward her betrothed. One would rather say that she _pattered_ , than any other word that might have described it. She skipped. Dancing down the steps to meet her promised lover, with all the show of eagerness she could muster. He was beaming proudly, eyes glowing with such sincere emotion she felt a momentary stab of smug pride, _hadn’t caught him yet_ indeed. How shortsighted.

Two steps up from the bottom Delilah stopped, raising her arms expectantly. Instantly she was caught around the waist, (the pressure made her corset dig sharply into her tender stomach, and she schooled her face not to grimace). Her fiancé was thick as a bull and taller than most men, so it was no struggle for him to lift her above his head, spinning in a circle, before setting her carefully back on the ground. Gasps, cheers, and admiring murmurs greeted the display, guests fawning over their host; so that when Delilah came to rest, she didn’t have to fake the smile of triumph.

“Francis!” she gasped as soon as she landed. And reached up to latch her hands around the lapels of his jacket, so she could bend that mountain of a man to her much slighter build, and place a kiss on his cheek. Drifting scandalously close to his mouth, as if she would have liked to go farther, but was conscious of the watching crowd.

“Well that certainly wasn’t expected,” Francis said as soon as she freed him, and he cupped her cheek more gently than she’d ever thought such a huge hand could touch anything. “You are too kind my dear, I don’t deserve you.”

“That was for being the best man in all the world. This,” turning his hand so she could lightly kiss his palm, “Is for asking me to dance. Which I’m sure you’re about to do any moment now.”

“Of course, it would give me no greater pleasure, than having a dance with my lady at the earliest opportunity.” He said at once, grinning broadly, and clearly charmed by her arch deportment.

“Let me see,” Delilah said, making a show of thinking hard. “Yes I believe I could find room for you somewhere, in fact, I believe I have the first dance unclaimed! How lucky for you.”

She was at once maneuvered toward the open stone plaza, where musicians were playing, guests were dancing gayly, and others were watching around the edge. Delilah already guessed that she would be sealed with Francis in their own little world for a while, and resigned herself to the prospect. Giving herself no time, or opportunity, to think of or speak with, anyone other than Francis. Until he himself should release her.

Francis Hadoc. An unfortunate name really, and even more unfortunate when she tried adding her own name to it: Delilah Hadoc, Lady Hadoc. Whatever had possessed his ancestors to name him Francis, she couldn’t possibly tell. It was frightful. Especially since the man looked nothing like a Francis. He was built like a young bull, stood easily over the heads of his guests, and looked more masculine than any man Delilah had ever met. She could imagine being snapped like a twig between those fingers, and she often thought of it, as a timely and self imposed warning to be cautious. Francis didn’t seem like the man to be violently angry, but then again, he didn’t seem like the type to be religious either, and that he certainly was.

He was rich, and from a reputable old noble family, but she guessed that it was his religion that really drew Their attention. Francis was not only wealthy but powerful as well, since he was well known as a faithful follower and generious giver to the religeon of the Raven Queen. It was well known that Francis was a widower, who had married when he was quite a young man, but lost his wife to illness years ago. Delilah guessed, from the little he ever spoke of his other romance, that he had loved her deeply. And like so many men stricken with grief, he had turned to religeon, becoming a vocal follower of the goddess of death and fate. Some said that he had bought his way into his influencial temple position, but true or false, it was common knowledge that the temple benefited extensively from his plentiful coin. He had remained unmarried, and was nearing the age of sixty, dedicated to his goddess, but ultimately just a lonely old man in search of peace. The perfect man for Delilah’s attractions in fact.

As a pretty child, he had been well pleased with her, and easily agreed to an early engagement. Now, as a marriageable young woman, he was quite ready to be deeply in love with a woman again. If he was not exactly the kind of man Delilah would have chosen for herself, still, she knew They could have saddled her with worse. Francis was closer to being her father than her husband, but he was an honorable man, had plenty of wealth to make her comfortable, and would certainly never abuse her. A pretty fair prize on the whole, and so easily manipulated it was almost boring. She knew she had little room to complain.

The dance came to an end, and though she was starting to weary of her attentive admirer, she was still sorry to see the dance end. Delilah loved dancing, and her partner was so large, he easily scattered other couples out of his way. But the music stopped, and she was deposited on a stone garden seat, while Francis lumbered away to bring her some punch. Catching her breath, she was able to look about her during the moment’s peace, and take in the surrounding scene.

Francis kept a beautiful garden, and the guests were equally attractive, flitting through the trees and flower laden shrubs like huge jewel encrusted butterflies. Brilliantly colored paper lanterns were hung under all the trees, fountains sparkled like glass in the party light, and the dance music was wafted over the whole place. It looked, Delilah thought with momentary wistfulness, like an enchanted fairyland, and for one moment she would have given anything to be alone and free to explore it.

She was almost alone at the moment. The only people near her, was a tall man and willowy woman, who had just stopped dancing, and were chatting on the grass close by. The man didn’t appear to be giving the young woman much of his attention or effort, idly sipping his wine as she prattled, and it amused Delilah to watch them. As the young woman’s energy flagged, she tried to boost the mood with a flirtatious show of adjusting her partners cravat, got no response, and slowly began to loose interest.

Delilah had to command all her self control not to laugh at their uncomfortable silence, amused by the woman’s discomfort and wandering eyes. Suddenly the lady’s eyes lit up, and she made a not so subtle _come hither_ gesture at a young fop who had paused at the edge of the dance. They clearly knew each other, and in another moment, the dandy was rescuing her from her sour partner, asking her gallantly to dance. She agreed with a final show of eagerness meant to inspire jealousy, but it got no more response than her other attempts, and she had no choice but to withdraw defeated. Which, from the way her jilted partner smiled and sipped his wine completely undisturbed, Delilah guessed was exactly what he’d wanted.

In order to hide her grin of amusement, Delilah had to turn her face away. Struggling not to show that she’d witnessed this petty exchange between two strangers. Here it seemed, she had found a kindred spirit, who showed as little enthusiasm for the party as she secretly felt. But before she could compose herself enough to observe him again, her own partner was coming back, and Delilah knew she couldn’t shake him off like the stranger had. She was tethered, while he was free, and she realized how little companionship there was between them after all.

“I hope I haven’t left you waiting too long, you must be parched after that dance.” He said, offering her a cup of punch, and a plate of ice at the same time in his solicitude.

“No indeed!” Delilah hastened to reassure him, struggling with her now full hands. “The time seemed too short without you.”

The sound of a half repressed laugh startled her, and she realized with a swoop of consternation that she wasn’t the only one observing public spectacles. Just as she had been observing the only adjacent social exchange, the young man, now that he was unencumbered, was also watching her and Francis. And while Francis might have been quite below the tone of her speech, unable to discern her implied insult through its affectionate tone of voice, their silent observer was not. He’d caught the meaning, and unsuccessfully stifled a laugh.

Attention drawn by the sound, Francis glanced to see who it was that had laughed, and his face immediately lit up. “Ah! My Lord! Exactly one of the people I was hoping to see!” He exclaimed happily, rising from his seat next to Delilah.

The young lord, as he appeared now to be, smiled pleasantly, and bowed to them. Not content with that, Francis stepped forward to heartily shake the lord’s hand.

“I was hoping to get a chance to speak with you, and introduce you to my charming wife to be.” Francis said, with pardonable pride, turning and holding out his hand toward Delilah. “May I present you to, Delilah of Fenmoor, the delight of my eyes and beauty of my life.”

Delilah was keenly aware of the embarrassment of her position. Still sitting on the bench at the feet of these noblemen, like a maid being interviewed for hire, both hands occupied with punch and ice. But if the young lord felt the awkwardness as she did, he had the goodness not to show any amusement again. Fiercely determined not to look in the least discomfited, Delilah set aside her fiancé’s imprudent gifts, and rose to take Francis’ outstretched hand.

“My dear,” Francis said, pulling her forward, “may I present you to Lord Sylas Briarwood. A patron of our temple, and the landholder of the region.”

Now that she was standing before him, Delilah realized how much taller than her he really was. That, or it was she who was much smaller than him, for standing at her full hight she still only reached his shoulder. Lord Briarwood had a naturally muscular build, accented by the stiff shoulders of his coat, and on the whole he cut a rather intimidating figure. Minimalism appeared to be his personal preference, he was dressed even more simply than Francis (who’s tailor had the good sense to minimize his hulking figure with frugal attire), sporting only a golden signet ring as any sign of wealth. He had a sharp, almost chiseled face, of the sort that could remain unmoved while any thought stirred behind it. The eyes, when she looked into them, was where the spark of life lay. Dark black, so that they didn’t have any bottom, glittering with the sharp intelligence of the man behind them.

“You needn’t extol all my titles Hadoc,” Lord Briarwood said, eyes flickering with hidden humor as he spoke. “I’m just a man like any other.”

It was the first time Delilah had heard his voice, he had never spoken a word to the wench that jilted him for a smarter partner, and the sound of it sent a chill coiling over Delilah’s skin. He had a deeper voice than she’d thought, and though his face looked perfectly composed, the tone of his speech was so expressive she could instantly catch his amusement at this ridiculous situation in it. There was something cold there too, the same kind of distant amusement at her fiancé’s dullness that she herself couldn’t afford to show.

“I am deeply honored to make your acquaintance my lady,” Lord Briarwood said, with another, deeper bow.

Delilah swept into the best curtsey she could muster, catching her footing, and remembering her part again. It did her credit, for Francis looked completely bewitched by her grace, and the young lord was watching her with grave composure.

“The honor is all mine, my lord.” She said. Which was perfectly true, his station was higher than hers, and she saw him almost smile, catching the faint dryness to her observation.

For a moment she wondered what could possibly be said after that, the question burning in her mind, but before the tension could grow awkward they were interrupted. Another guest, almost as thickly built as Francis, but not so tall, came shouldering out of the crowd and hailed her fiancé. Forgetting both of them, Francis laughed and moved with open arms toward his friend.

“Diedric my man! How are you? Did you end up selling that little bitch of a pointer that was giving you trouble? or was your man able to train her—“ Francis began, voice fading away into the crowd as walked with his friend, now animatedly discussing hunting dogs.

“Allow me to wish you joy on your marriage,” Lord Briarwood remarked, the coolness in his voice now much more pronounced than it had been. “That man must be counting his blessings.”

“Thank you,” Delilah said lightly, “the joy isn’t needed, I’m perfectly happy, but the sentiment is accepted all the same. He is a dear, delightful joy of a man.”

“I’ve long thought he needed a woman in his life to beautify him,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll do him great credit as his wife.”

A long bead of silence fell, and Delilah shifted uncomfortably next to him. Not because she wanted to leave, and couldn’t think of a polite way to do it; but because she found herself, strangely, wracking her brain for a reason to stay. This Lord Briarwood was a clever man, clearly able to converse with her more easily than any of the idiots around them. As disgusted with the party goers, and all their meaningless jargon, as she was. The prospect of sharing that mocking distaste with a companion, seemed more inviting than hoarding it up alone, and the draw to tease him out and make him talk was stronger than she could explain.

Yet really, he didn’t seem very anxious to keep her.

“Do you treat all women this coldly?” Delilah sallied at last.

“You think I’m cold?”

“To women at least, you show it very plainly,” Delilah said.

“That is true.”

“On the whole, one would think from the way you’re treating me, that you didn’t wish me here. And I haven’t seen you converse in a satisfactory manner with men, so I must believe you despise them as well.”

“I am speaking with _you_ ,” Lord Briarwood deflected, “that you must admit.”

“I am making conversation, you are tolerating it.” Delilah asserted. “You haven’t introduced your own topic for the last five minutes, and only give a short response to any I produce. That is not talking.”

“Very well, my lady, it is impossible to deceive you.”

“Or perhaps,” Delilah said, suddenly changing tactics, and turning in a different direction completely. “You are at a loss how to converse with the opposite sex. We intimidate and confuse you. We pose a riddle you cannot answer, which offends your masculine pride, and thus you are forced to put up a distant mask in order to retain some dignity.”

“How shrewdly you pierce through any charade.”

“You cannot agree with everything I say.”

“That would be an impossible paradox.” He agreed.

“Come sir, that is not fair sporting, you must take one side or the other.”

“I was not aware we were engaging in a game.”

“Maybe that explains why you’re such a poor hand at it.”

He laughed at her insult, startled out of his facade of sober indifference. Once again, a flash of that quick wit and ready humor hidden under the shell, that tugged at Delilah’s interest, and pleased her pride. She could force him into expression, if she teased him to it.

“Perhaps I have been making rather a poor show of myself, haven’t I,” he agreed humorously.

“It’s quite infuriating.” Delilah said, “I want a foil to converse with me, and you are proving quite below my standard.”

“How unfortunate for you, to be so in need of an adversary, and find no one worthy of you wit.”

“Exactly. And as I am in need of an opponent, be so good as to at least try and provide some answer which is satisfactory. I requested to know whether you consider yourself above women, or beneath them, and you have yet to give me a response.”

“What if I withhold the answer, because I know it will not satisfy you, and fear your wrath upon disappointment?”

“Then you are in twofold danger,” Delilah replied candidly, trying to suppress a smile, as amusement ignited her blood. This conversation fascinated her, and it wouldn’t do to let him know it, just when she aught to be accusatory. “For you will receive the full weight of my wrath if you don’t answer me, and will face my equal displeasure if you do.”

“Then I am trapped in a most precarious position it seems.” Lord Briarwood deliberated, “I commit the heinous crime of displeasing you, whatever road I choose.”

“Poor unfortunate that you are, and I have no guidance to give you.” Delilah said carelessly, “I am not in the mood to take mercy upon you, and I am also not in the mood to wait. So you had better choose the road you will take pretty swiftly, or face my threefold wrath for taking neither.”

“You are indeed a tyrant to be feared!” Lord Briarwood laughed, and Delilah couldn’t help but smile now. Every time she forced the mirth out of him, was more rewarding than the last, spurring her on to try for another.

“I assure you, I am both careless, and cruel.” And she would have said more, would have continued. To tease, and taunt, and enjoy his company. But at that moment the last person either of them would have expected or wished to see, interrupted their conversation.

“Delilah, they’re calling everyone to the banquet, and you absolutely must come and sit with me, please, please, please.” A girl’s voice interrupted, and Delilah looked up startled.

It was Alinda, one of the temple acolytes, a ward of Francis’ raised in the service of the Raven Queen, and had quickly become markedly fond of her. Delilah had so much more freedom than Alinda, and under the excuse of guiding Delilah through an unfamiliar town, she had managed to steal many hours of that freedom too. Delighting in choosing and purchasing dresses, jewelry, and finery for Delilah, that she herself could never have afforded, or would have been given.

And for one sharp, _sharp_ moment, Delilah could have taken the girl’s skin off for coming between herself and Lord Briarwood. The anger ignited in her blood, crawling hot down her spine, and she knew for one heart stopping moment of weakness it showed on her face. As her mask slipped, the vivacious girl fell away, and she exposed herself. But Alinda was distracted, and Delilah sharply brought her own face back under control, berating herself for giving away.

“Francis said I must sit with Ta'gon, and you are to sit by him,” Alinda explained in a rush, completely unaware of the conversation she was interrupting. “But Ta'gon is a wet blanket, and I would rather sit with anyone else than him! You know how Francis is! If you tell him to let me sit by you, he’s sure to say yes, and then I don’t have to sit by Ta'gon, and please do. Delilah please.”

It took a hot, blood hazed moment to get herself under control enough to speak, but Delilah managed to say at last, “of course Alinda. I’ll ask him to let me sit by you…”

Alinda immediately went into a gush of thanks, squeezing Delilah’s hand painfully tight. And by the time she’d had the goodness to shut up, Lord Briarwood had moved away. Not in any _physical_ sense, he was standing exactly where he’d been before, but his face had gone still. The same grave, silent nobleman he’d been before, and all traces of that humor, that intoxicating changeful expression, had been wiped from his face. He was only Lord Briarwood now.

“If the meal is being served, then I must take leave of you both.” Lord Briarwood declared, distant, and urbane. “Little maid…My lady…” And with a final bow to each of them, he stalked away.


	3. The First and Second Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Inspiration: Main Theme from Broadchurch, by Ólafur Arnalds  
> https://youtu.be/MZfAjMcNGIM
> 
> Please listen, because these songs really do establish the mood, and I'd love to hear what you think.

“That was Lord Sylas Briarwood…” Alinda said blankly, tracing his retreating figure with her eyes, then blanching as the truth begin to sink in. “Lord Briarwood just bowed to you! He just called you, _my lady_ , like you were equals!”

“Well, that is generally the polite way to take your leave of someone you have just been conversing with, and if I am not a Lady yet, I soon will be.” Delilah said, a little more sourly than Alinda probably deserved. “So that could only be considered proper civility too.”

“Oh, you don’t understand at all, do you!” Alinda exclaimed. “He’s _the_ Lord Briarwood! And you were just talking with him anyhow! Chatting about the weather.”

“I was until you interrupted.” Delilah grumbled.

But whether she was in a foul mood or not, Delilah had no choice but to sit by the girl. She had already promised that she would. Which meant listening to a good deal more chatter about Lord Briarwood, his station, his accomplishments, and the tidbits of town gossip, before Alinda was satisfied. And as Delilah would have much preferred speaking to the man himself,i instead of hearing about him, it didn’t improve her spirits much.

She was coming to the opinion that this tiresome party would go on forever. Time dragged all during dinner, what with Alinda’s excited prattle on one side (she never got to enjoy lavish parties like this, and was in altogether better spirits than Delilah), and Francis on the other, she was soon bored to death. Alinda was a sweet girl, but she could run on, and Francis was necessary, but he did constantly call on Delilah’s attention.

And all this, running through her mind, while Lord Briarwood was only a few yards away from her. His privileged station awarded him with a chair very near the head of the table, but his attention never turned towards her. He appeared completely occupied, either with the mayor who was sitting beside him, or a nameless blonde beauty who had the privilege of sitting on his other side.

The one hope Delilah allowed herself to cherish was that there would be plenty of time to maneuver once dinner was over. She could dance, mingle, probably think of some way to escape from her companions for a moments peace, and if all went well catch Lord Briarwood for a dance. Delilah had the distinct idea that he would be an excellent dancer, and was burning to try him.

Fate it seemed, had different ideas. For as soon as dinner was over, Ta’gon asked her for a dance. And though she was longing to, there was no way to refuse, she knew he was too important to Them for her to ignore. Unfortunately Ta’gon, despite all his extensive religious training, had never been tutored in the art of dancing. He was an absolutely hideous partner.

Truly Alinda’s description of Ta’gon as a wet blanket didn’t do him justice, since he was quite a bit worse than that. Ta’gon was the head preist in the temple, and was both grave, and depressively somber. While many other of the Raven Queens followers possessed an almost unholy zest for life, while it lasted; Ta’gon seemed to spend his minutes as if he expected the world’s end momentarily. He spoke of fate, death, the brokenness of the world, and inevitable doom constantly. Not to mention the strong smell of mold, mixed with incense, that always hung about him in a suffocating cloud.

By the time they stopped dancing, Delilah was so dizzied by his personal fog bank of aroma, and he’d tread on her feet so many times, she was forced to sit down. Then she was immediately descended upon by several other young women, daughters of the magistrate, mayor, and upper middle class families. All of them wishing her joy, complimenting her on her dress, her man, her future house, and in fact every flattery they could think of.

The only way she could think of to get out of that, was to dance again. Marshaling several other young men to pair off with her tiresome companions, with her at their head, otherwise they would have refused to go. She would have enjoyed the dance, but her friends kept trying to hold stilted conversations with her, every time a figure brought them within earshot of each other, so that Delilah could not find the rhythm.

At last, after that ordeal was over, she managed to find an outlet. As the dancers streamed off the floor, making room for the next set, all the women were momentarily too busy to notice her, chatting animatedly on the dance and flirting with their partners. Claiming to be thirsty and out of breath, Delilah tottered to a bench in the shade of one of the trees, and her partner immediately ventured out to find her some refreshment. Recognizing the boon, Delilah instantly rose from the bench when she was alone, and stole away into the winding avenues of flowers, searching for a private place to catch a moment alone.

The whole of the garden was brilliant with party light, scattered with guests wandering about in twos and threes to admire the greenery, so that Delilah began to despair of finding any privacy at all. Finally she found a more deserted walkway, around the very edge of the orchard at the bottom of the garden, where the plants took on a wilder and less restricted form, and there were no lanterns. The stone walkway became gravel, and then only trampled grass, the box hedges became untrained shrubs, the fragrant roses turned into wild lavender and honeysuckles.

All at once she could feel the cool evening air, instead of the hot press of bodies, could make out the soft calling of night birds instead of people clamoring, could see the real moon and real stars, bigger and brighter here than they’d been under the glare of party lights. It was like learning to breathe again, after being trapped underwater, the restriction of society giving away to the freedom of solitude. Barely noticeable between the wild lavender bushes, was a wooden arbor. The white paint was peeling, and it leaned sideways from the press of a large shrub on one side, but the wooden bench was dry, it was a retired corner, and Delilah’s feet hurt, so she settled.

It was easy to loose track of time, listening to the distant sounds of dance music and marry making, breaking on the shores of the larger nighttime silence. She couldn’t remember exactly how long she’d been sitting, only growing more aware of the inward call to go back. The party was still going on, and she had a part to play still, a man to romance, which meant she couldn’t linger over long here. But the thought of returning back to that suffocating press made her shudder, and she pushed it back, and pushed it back.

She was at last resolving within herself, that now she really _must_ go back, when the crunch of feet on gravel rooted her in her seat. It would be intensely embarrassing to appear out of some dark corner and startle the wits out of some unsuspecting guest, so she decided to stay, and wait them out. A few more moments wouldn’t hurt. The footsteps faded away, and she was just about to rise, when she realized that the crack of gravel had become the rustle of grass, which meant the feet were still moving towards her. Then in another moment, Lord Briarwood appeared at the edge of her vision, casually strolling up the walk.

There was little sense in trying to get out of his way, he would hear the movement of her dress, not to mention it’s brilliant white color that would be impossible to hide. So she had no choice but to remain where she was, and pretend that she hadn’t been running away from a party that had been thrown in her honor, and for her express pleasure. Clearly, Lord Briarwood had seen her anyway, for his feet turned in her direction, and he halted in front of the arbor.

“I _thought_ you might be resting,” he said, and the friendly ease in his voice made her ashamed of her own discomfort. “Since I couldn’t pick you out among any of the other guests.”

He seemed perfectly comfortable, so why should she feel any different? Delilah smiled, and struggled to relax her shoulders. “I was a little fatigued,” she said, and it startled her to realize how truly tired she sounded. “The air was a little restrictive, and I wished for a moment alone to collect myself.”

“A moment alone you shall have then,” Lord Briarwood said, a smile distinctly present in his voice, and he quietly strolled away. Not as if he were offended by her rebuttal, nor as if he would rather be rid of her, but as if he were doing her a service, offering her the coveted solitude she so desired.

Delilah released a slow breath, relaxing back into the quiet of the night as he walked off, glad that he hadn’t seemed offended or disappointed to leave her. It was the rest she needed, feeling more justified in lingering, now that she had the faint excuse of keeping Lord Briarwood company. She leaned back on her palms, looking up through the shadowed lattice work above her, as she marked and named the constellations in the blackness overhead.

Lord Briarwood’s footsteps reappeared five minutes later, rustling soft and rhythmic in the grass, until he stood before her once again. Rested, and now ready to be friendly again, Delilah looked up at him and smiled. She couldn’t see his face, in the deep shadows of the walk, but she knew he smiled back. She felt it. As simply and naturally, as she would have felt her own.

“I hope that was the moment you needed.” He asked.

“Yes, I feel better…thank you my lord.” Delilah said, outstretching her hand to touch his arm, as a thanks.

But before she would withdraw, he had captured the hand she held out, enveloping it in his much larger grip.

“I would like it better if you referred to me (and I to you) by first name, my little friend.” Lord Briarwood said gently, smiling down at her again. “Continually calling me a lord, seems like building up a barrier to between us, and I would much rather have easy friendship than stiff formality.”

“Thank you…Sylas…” She corrected, shrinking a little under the strange familiarity.

“Thank _you_ , Delilah,” And he bent down to kiss her hand as he spoke.

The gesture was unexpected, catching her completely off guard. And to her own disgust, Delilah felt a blush rise in her cheeks, blood stirring with mingled embarrassment and gratification. He made no move to release her hand from his grip either, and she couldn’t think of any way to disengage herself, without making it seem like a harsh rebuff. So she allowed it to remain, trying desperately to think of something appropriately dispassionate to say, while her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

“You came looking for me?” Was all she could come up with, at the end of a long interval of desperate searching.

“I did.” He admitted openly, not in the least embarrassed by the omission, which made her shrink from her own uneasiness again. “I was intrigued by our conversation. The way you spoke amused me, and I was sorry to be interrupted. But I didn’t see you dancing, and you weren’t anywhere else in the garden, so I thought you must be, as you said, composing yourself.”

“Perhaps I spoke a little rudely to you,” Delilah apologized, “I haven’t been accustomed to moving in fashionable society.”

“No indeed, it’s been long since anyone would speak to me so freely,” Sylas said, and she felt the smile again, warm and honest against her face, emboldening her to go on.

“Well I don’t know why you should wish to continue,” Delilah said briskly, sharpening her humor again. “Seeing that I scolded you soundly, last time you placed yourself within my reach, I treated you quite ungently.”

“You did at that,” He returned, as readily animated as she was. “I have the bruises still, smarting painfully where you’ve ravaged my pride.”

“I assure you, I am a merciless despot, so you had better take yourself off at once. If you do not wish to be mangled again.” She warned

“Nothing gives me greater satisfaction than riding the danger’s edge,” Sylas said carelessly, “facing down the tigress gives me inexpressible pleasure.”

“You should not be so bold in the face of my challenge, for you still have yet to answer the riddle I posed you: whether you consider yourself above women, or beneath them.”

“Ah, I am still being threatened by that storm-cloud am I?”

“Yes you are.” Delilah said with a wicked grin, “and be assured, that whatever answer you give me, will surely be the wrong one. I am impossible to please.”

“Sharpen your knife then, my darling, and chip at my pride. I’ll warrant I can bare it.”

“C-Come sir, you are still avoiding the question…” Delilah faltered, the word _darling_ ringing in her ears like a warning bell, trying to hold down a blush again.

“Then I had better do my best to answer you,” he declared, abruptly becoming quite sober. “Perhaps I agreed with all your attacks upon my character because every one of them was true.”

“What do you mean?” Delilah asked, with a little prick of true irritation. The sudden change from playful banter, to somber discourse, startled her. “You were told not to agree with everything I said! Explain yourself at once, dreadful sinner.”

“Give me a moment, and I will explain it all,” Sylas promised. For a long moment he was silent, gently chafing the fingers of the hand he still had possession of, as he gathered his thoughts. Delilah could feel how charged the atmosphere had become, her nerves were singing with intrigue.

“Consider this problem with me,” He said at last, quite suddenly taking a seat on the bench next to her, just as she was beginning to grow impatient. “I am faced by two women, both are diametrically opposed, and each represent half of womankind. With both I am silent, but each for a different reason.”

“I understand,” Delilah said, when he did not continue any farther. “Pray go on.”

“With the one woman I am silent, because she is beneath me,” Sylas continued with a sigh, still chafing her fingers between his. “She is beneath me, I say. Not because her station is lower than mine, not because her wealth is less than mine, nor even because her manners are poorer than mine. But because her mind is not able to agree with mine. She has no desire to meet me in true understanding, she wishes only to attach herself to my fortune, to gain the prize of my title, to make love and leave me.”

Delilah nodded slowly, as he once again fell silent, and quietly squeezed his much larger hand between her slender fingers.

“She is the first woman,” He explained, “and she is so far beneath my faculties that I despise her, as you have accused. I say nothing, because there is nothing to be said. She will not understand, or heed my words, she wishes only to charm me with her flatteries. I say nothing because I know she will be offended by my silence, and I do not care about offending her.”

“And what of the second woman?” Delilah gently pressed, still veiled under the pretense of easy banter, but with a undercurrent of sincerity that was far more earnest than before.

“The second woman…” Sylas mused, and the hand which held hers suddenly crushed down around her fingers like iron, capturing her in a stony grip. “With the second woman, I am silent for such entirely different reasons, I can hardly begin to understand them. I say nothing because she seems as far above me, as her sister was beneath me. Where the one offered me no challenge, no discovery, I find the other to be all challenges. She puzzles me, like a riddle I cannot answer. I don’t even know how to begin. She has a power to confuse me, that leaves me dizzy, and the more I try to understand her, the less of her I see. Anything I say seems dangerous, a step into uncharted territory, but I find myself so strongly pulled to speak, I grow alarmed by it. I say nothing, because I am afraid that one word would not suffice me, and if I had once begun I would rashly reveal it all.”

“Such a woman must be rare indeed, if she is not impossible altogether. What you describe is like a goddess.” Delilah murmured, struggling to find words.

“She seemed like a goddess to me…” Sylas said thoughtfully, Delilah could no longer feel her fingers through the strength of his grip on her hand, as he suddenly dispensed with ceremony altogether. “ _You_ seem impossible to me. I wish to understand you, but I find myself confounded at every turn, when you evade me once again. As a game I try to confront you, in jest I try to pin you down, but at every pass you out maneuver me.”

“Sylas—“ her words failed her. She had no clever retort prepared now.

“Something _draws_ me to you, and I cannot name it.” He said, gaining possession of her other hand. “As if you pulled out the strings of my heart, and knotted them about your little finger. What are you, that you can command so much, without so much as a passing thought. Delilah, how can you so easily defeat me!?”

“Stop, stop. Sylas please…” These were impassioned speeches he was confiding in her, and she could hardly draw breath with the weight of it, fighting to keep her composure. She could feel herself slipping, loosing her grip under his force.

“You little _torturer_ ,” Sylas pressed, vehement and almost angry now.

If she had wanted to coax out the real man, she was seeing him now, unrestrained and brazen before her; the strength of his unchecked emotion overpowering. His conviction was like a weight, like a pressing burden holding her pinned, the earnestness of every word pierced her. Under his pressure she was shaking like a leaf, fighting to control herself, and failing completely, just barely holding herself upright. While Sylas continued on, gripping her shoulders now, as if he would bend her under his hands, like a stubborn bar of iron, in order to discover the mystery that frustrated him.

“What am I saying?!” He exclaimed half to himself, agitated by his own unchecked emotion, and he shook her as he spoke. “See what you make me say? Already I’ve gone too far. When I meant to be silent, you make me speak, when I wish to be deaf, you make me hear! Not yet four and twenty hours, and already I cannot resist you. I hardly know your name, and already you’re all I see. Hardly a dozen words, and you’ve wrested my center from me, as if I’d worshiped for a lifetime. In five minutes you accomplish all this! Little changeling! You wicked Charmer, what have you done with me!”

The sob rose against her will, forcing its way out. Somehow, his conviction easily slipped past every defense, and pierced her heart like nothing ever had. Maybe she had the power to move him, as he claimed, but if she did, he had the same power to move her just as strongly. She couldn’t cover her face, with both her hands held captive, the last defense pulled away. Finally breaking completely, Delilah leaned forward searching for a support, and found the solid weight of Sylas’s body. As she leaned against him, and hid her face in his shoulder.

It ached in her chest. Smarting because it called something. His words burned against her, and conjured something within her that she couldn’t control. He was so vehement, so passionate, she couldn’t block him out. It tortured because she felt fulfilled, as if she’d never tasted pure water until that moment, and was drowning from the rapture of it.

And worst pain of all, she knew she couldn’t accept it. Having found the first real thing she’d ever felt, she had to turn away and refuse another draft. Because she had another purpose, another destiny, another responsibility. They’d raised her for a purpose, and she couldn’t abandon it now.

As soon as she fractured, Sylas’s consuming fire was gone. He was all support, all careful solicitude, consumed in loving care. The arm around her waist was gentle and affectionate, his hand cupped the back of her head, as she hid her face in his breast. She could feel the warmth of his breath in her hair, hushing her as she wept. And that only tortured all the more, for if the passion had stirred her, the tenderness was so much harder to resist. Because she knew, she had to pull away, it was commanded.

But she was too weak to really do it.

“How do you make me love you…” It was so soft, she barely heard it, breathed in her hair. “With nothing but tears, you make me need you.” He was stronger this time, and she shivered as she felt his arm gather in her waist, and pull her to him.

She shivered because she wanted it.

“I love you, and I don’t think I can stop.” Sylas said, gently pulling away, and raising his free arm to cup her cheek and raise her face. His thumb brushed across her cheek, wiping away a tear, and it felt like sitting in front of him exposed with nothing on. “You’ve bewitched me, little enigma, and I don’t think I know how to stop.”

Whether she could have fought him more, she didn’t know, whether she would have resisted any farther. Because he bent over her before she could decide, and pressed his mouth to hers.

And as soon as they touched, she knew she was done. It was more than she could fight against, a force dragging her down, and it did indeed feel as if she couldn’t stop. Suddenly she couldn’t part from him. Gasping into the kiss with the torturing pain of how tightly her heart was entwined with his, the thread suddenly hardening, clenching down upon her like possessive iron. Sylas was everything she’d ever needed, everything she’d ever wanted, he was everything she’d ever loved.

The act of giving in was so easy, every moment of it right, every sensation shiningly perfect. Blood igniting into a sweeter, gentler fire, setting her veins ablaze. Here was harmony, here was understanding. This was the other half of her soul, joining together with hers, this was the force she’d been fighting. And she couldn’t fight it any more.

It was simple in the end, she loved him fiercely, because she had to.

They said that some things had power, some acts had magic. Blood she knew, blood she’d felt before, it was a thing with power. Now she knew what They meant, now she felt their meaning, when They said that an act like this had power. She could feel it. This understanding had it’s own potency.

“Say it again…” Delilah breathed, gasping for breath when Sylas gently released her, and drew back to look at her face.

“I love you.” Spoken with another soft kiss, his lips moving against hers.

“Say it better.”

“I love you.” Growled with dark conviction into the side of her neck, and his arm anchored her waist to his side as he spoke, the gesture possessive and perfect. Delilah yielded to him, letting him claim her, letting him possess her, winding her own arms around his neck as he did so.

“Again,” she whispered against his shoulder, and felt how her voice sent a tremble through his whole body.

“Delilah, I love you…”

Delilah could have laughed the world to shame, if she had time to think of it, assured and certain in her lover’s embrace. Knowing that he was hers, that she possessed all of him. Free to run her fingers through his hair, to settle her arms around his neck, and explore the contours of his face in the dark with her fingers.

She could feel Sylas exploring too, running his free hand over the curved stiffness of her corseted waist. Then his hand was moving farther down, pulling her skirt up. It made her flinch, and cling closer to him, knowing what it meant, knowing where he was leading. Finally he tugged her heavy skirts up high enough, and his hand slid underneath with a growl of satisfaction, gently prodding her legs apart.

His fingers pressed against her through the thin fabric of her underclothes, exploring in gentle circles, and Delilah instinctively shivered and yielded. Burying her face in his shoulder, she gripped tighter into his hair, silently pleading _again_ , now that her voice could not. She felt his response when he tipped her backwards, fingers searching to find an easy way in, until she felt his hand press against her again, the touch sharpened without an intervening layer of fabric.

Then she felt the easy warmth of his fingers enter her flesh, pressing her open, as he gently explored her center. It made her tremble in his embrace, her sob muffled against his shoulder, as her tender flesh fluttered around his fingers. His arm around her waist had become her support, cradling her in an attentive embrace, and drawing her in to lean her weakness against his strength.

Grateful for the support, she clung to him, coiling up against his solid mass, and hiding her face in the crook of his neck. The touch of his fingers had awakened her body into sparkling bliss, aching with satisfaction around his fingers, and she gave herself to the sensation. Letting him press her open, yielding completely around him.

Pleasure was wrapping around his fingers now, her flesh relaxing warm and open, welcoming him deeper. The brush of his finger flickered at her tender bud, and she moaned against his neck, feeling the fission of heat crawl deeper into her core. He growled in response, like a wolf sensing her weakness, and pressed her sensitivity again.

Then with a sudden rush, it was too much, too close, too intense. With a stifled moan, Delilah’s flesh closed around his fingers, her body aching with the peak. Sylas shuddered and gripped her tighter, still tormenting her with the caress of his fingers between her legs. She trembled in his arms, as she was caught in the hight of her pleasure, and he steadied her with his strength. Holding her anchored, as his fingers wrung her out, and left her shaking.

When it was over she dragged him down, and met him in a passionate kiss, gasping against him as her bliss began to fade. His hand slid out from under her skirt, and he quietly tugged it back around her ankles, brushing the fabric smooth. She wanted to laugh at his attentiveness, she wanted to smile at his care, wanted to burst and cry for joy. He was so heartbreakingly careful.

It ached to part, but Sylas was pulling away. He tugged a silken handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and quietly wiped his hand. The heat was fading, the bliss draining away, and Delilah knew they were in the real world now. And she knew they would have to go back.

“Imagine if the maker of that could have known what you would use it for...the knowledge would have put him to the blush,” Delilah said, nodding at the handkerchief as Sylas tucked it away, trying to prolong the spell.

“If only you had the power to tell him, my love,” Sylas agreed.

The possessive affection made Delilah glow, reminding her for that one moment, what she was harboring now. And though it did not remove the reality that lay ahead, the knowledge lingered. The moments were running out fast, and she could feel them slipping through her fingers. When Sylas rose from the bench, it was like having a tightly wound string knotted around her ribcage, that jerked her out of her seat as he did.

“Sylas!”

He paused, looking down at her, and the distance made her heart ache, so that she clung to his shoulders. To her vision he was glowing, every inch of him almost blinding. A shadowed silhouette in the darkness that drew her to him, and held her captive, every fibre of her craving him.

“What are we calling this?” She whispered, feeling the need close her throat.

For a moment he yielded again, the distant mask melted away, as he pulled her to him again, and rested his arms around her waist. “Does it need a name?” He murmured, and bent over her.

It ached again when he pulled away. She was breathless but longing to continue in spite of it, as he quietly drew away. His form held her enthralled until he disappeared from view, then she was free, and stood shaking as she struggled to breathe.

But he lingered though. She couldn’t shake him. The knowledge of what she had, still whispering in the back of her mind. A rose colored haze on the edge of her perception, a deeply cherished secret in the depth of her thoughts.

It was so simple, so easy, so irresistible to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have a problem with the flowery speeches, I've been reading Jane Eyre. And that book is AMAZING ok?!? So fucking fight me.

**Author's Note:**

> And thus starts a longer fic! I'm gonna try my hand at something with a real plot for a change, since all the Delilah/Sylas fics I've invested in have all been stuck in purgatory forever. Please feel free to scream at me if I go for months without updating, I promise I'm gonna finish this thing, (fingers crossed)...


End file.
